


Dissolute Bunnies, Snippets, and Assorted Wake Waste

by Dissolute_FactorEl



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Play, Audiophilia, Blood and Gore, CMNF, Camming, F/M, Gen, Guilt, Incest, Lonliness, Masturbation, Sex Toys, Somnophilia, bestial fantasies, consensual exposure, erotic tragedy, hands-free stimulation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27328822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dissolute_FactorEl/pseuds/Dissolute_FactorEl
Summary: A place for the little notions that didn't go very far. Content may vary from G to X in rating. All ideas up for adoption.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	1. Luck of The Deal - Worm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The result of wondering about camming and chat roullette in the world of parahumans. A much less damaged Taylor picks up a hobby of surfing for personal stimulation during college, and encounters an unusual partner. The goal was to find something sexy in an aspect of the internet I find less appealing , and play with one of Worm's side characters.

*

_Preparing stream...........Connection Successful._

“-oh yeah, fucking show me those tits girl, show me those young tits, you know you-”

The instant the 5-second refresh block had expired, Taylor was clicking onward, clearing the frenzied middle-aged masturbator and his slurred diatribe from her screen.

_Rate this channel? the interface offered._

Taylor rolled her eyes and allocated one for lack of originality – if the man hadn't been groomed downstairs, she'd have left it at zero.

_Re-loading Shuffle..........done.  
Found 438,704 users online.  
Randomizing..........located channel: **BabelfishBoos**  
Preparing stream...........Connection Successful._

The next feed turned out to be of an empty room. After half a minute where absolutely nothing happened (not even the volume-splitting jump-scare she was expecting), Taylor clicked forward again, giving it a three. The wallpaper had been nice.

_Re-Loading Shuffle..........done.  
Found 437,591 users online.  
Randomizing..........located channel: **HUNGfred5**  
Preparing stream...........Connection Successful._

It was another naked person, but this time only visible from thigh to belly, hands hidden behind their back, average-sized penis jutting directly towards the camera. They flexed, causing the erection to rise and sharpening the definition of their abdominal muscles. A moment later they relaxed, then flexed again.

Taylor bit her lip, and the hand that had found its way down her sweatpants four shuffles previously began to move again. In the periphery of her vision, the picture-in-picture of the stream displayed her own webcam's viewpoint: a thin girl's t-shirt-clad body visible from the shoulders down, with a desk and keyboard obscuring her legs. This girl's arm was oscillating out of sight, and her other hand soon rose from the mouse to fondle the slight mounds of her chest.

The person Taylor was watching repeated the cycle of flexing a few more times, then their hands came around and began to stroke, the cock occasionally going out of focus due to its proximity to the camera. Their nails were painted a vibrant shade of green.

After almost a minute of pumping in dead silence, the person suddenly tensed up, grunted softly, and burbles of semen began to emerge from the phallus, oozing downward to drip off and out of frame. Taylor moaned as the other's orgasm ran its course, watching raptly and working hard at the bump under her own hood until the figure moved forward and the stream abruptly cut off.

With a huff of frustration the young woman sat back, hands slowing. That had been the closest she'd gotten all night. Resentfully, but her sense of fairness allowing nothing less, Taylor clicked on the bubble for seven, accounting for form, grooming, and the impressive volume.

_Would've been a higher score if they'd let me make it all the way, dammit._

A glance at the glowing numerals over by her bed informed the girl that it was now 12:49 AM.

_Darn it._

Taylor had _promised_ herself she'd log off by midnight. And she had class first thing in the morning, too.

_...Just a few more._

It wasn't her fault that Shuffle got more interesting the later you logged in. Maybe it was an East vs West coast thing, but most of what Taylor saw in the evenings tended towards a more pedestrian side of trolls, sex, and everything else the internet generally offered. After midnight, the proportion of freaks and creatives encountered among the generic randomness increased drastically.

Late surfing was becoming dangerously close to an addiction with her. 

At the start of her freshman semester of college, Taylor had attended classes, diligently done her homework, and been in bed before eleven on most days. Ever since Tanya and Becky had introduced her to the world's most popular online roulette wheel, however, Taylor had been slipping. She was still keeping up with her assignments for now, but the reduced amount of sleep was becoming a problem. Thank goodness they were closing on Christmas break.

_Re-Loading Shuffle..........done.  
Found 438,052 users online.  
Randomizing..........located channel: **ScatLuuuver**_

Preemptively, Taylor's mouse moved to hove over the 'Reshuffle' button.

_Preparing stream...........Connection successful._

Aaaaand yup.

Taylor kept her eyes closed after that first glimpse, and clicked robotically through the timer until the audio finally cut out.

Unfortunately, that sort of thing became more common after midnight too. While Taylor now shrugged at a lot of what would've had her ripping cables out of the wall back in September, there were some things that did not do it for her.

_Brothers mud-wrestling? Animated tentacle monster scene re-cuts? Chicks with dicks? All – surprisingly – yes. Whips & stocks, pooping on the dinner table, or licking eyeballs? No, hell no, 'never again' would be too soon honestly, goodbye, zero out of ten. Brain bleach, next please._

She adjusted the carnival mask concealing her identity to place less strain on her nose, and clicked forward.

Some boys lighting farts (one), another vitriol spewing man (not even jerking off this time, zero), and a pen full of adorable cats (six) passed by as Taylor's arousal ebbed further.

Then, thankfully, she was matched to a stream where a man and woman lay naked on a couch, moaning and undulating into one another enthusiastically. A Christmas-tree light ringed-banner on the wall advertised their username:

**LateNiteFuckSight is multicasting! $5 extensions, $25 requests, no Deck additions.**

There was also a ShufflePay link overlaid the bottom of the screen. 

Unlike Taylor's favorite live sex cast (a couple named **BrocktonBangers69** , who only performed on weekends), this pair were much more obviously putting on a show for their audience. However, there was enough genuine chemistry between the two for the youngest Hebert to overlook any blatantly performative aspects of the intercourse, and since both were very conventionally attractive, it was probably for the best that she didn't have a credit card linked to her account, or the temptation to buy a time extension would have been rather high.

Still, Taylor enjoyed watching the two transition from missionary, to cowgirl, back to missionary, and finally to a standing penetration that made it obvious that their prime physical condition wasn't just for show. Both of Taylor's hands worked a steady tempo in the increasing wetness between her legs, and when the five-minute connection expired with her verging but not quite satiated, the girl practically keened in frustration.

_Agh, so close! Nine, and I hope to find you again. Please let whoever's next be at least half a cool._

_Re-loading Shuffle..........done.  
Found 435,956 users online.  
Randomizing..........located channel: 000065536  
Preparing stream..._

Taylor blinked, and warily – but with curiosity somewhat elevated from normal – wiped her left hand on her pants and prepared to advance again if necessary. 

Some people never bothered to give a proper name to their Shuffle channel, leaving it set as the number it was assigned when registered. These numbers were supposed to be randomized, but the generator hadn't worked right in the site's first months. If a user's number was below one hundred thousand, odds were good that it was their actual place in the registration queue. Having one of those low numbers was an unofficial badge of prestige – entirely separate from a channel's official ratings.

However, what many didn't know (and Taylor had only found out after helping a young Portugese user with some coding homework) was that the first 50 thousand numbers had been reserved due to a separate bug in the file query system, and user registrations had truly began at '000050001.'

Heedless of this, many trolls and wannabes changed their channel names to low numbers for whatever empty credit that could garner, even though they couldn't actually hypertext, multi-link, or any of the other hidden features that only true Shuffle veterans were capable of exploiting. '000000001' and the infamous '000000137' were among the commonest channel names on the website, with hundreds of matches for either, if one bothered to search.

But having a number like '000065536' meant either someone was a smarter troll than most...or might have actually been one of the site's earlier registrants.

Well, she'd soon find out.

_...Connection Successful._

Once the video loaded in, Taylor was pleasantly surprised to find a well-framed scene of a man sitting behind a bed, fully clothed in a dark suit and beautifully-feathered half-face crow mask, and holding a violin. The lighting was far better than most managed too, lacking the tell-tale glare of drop-lights or leaving room itself to be swallowed by darkness. The sitter didn't say anything, merely raised his instrument, settled it into position, and began playing.

The tune was jaunty, and the musician rather skilled: even filtered through Taylor's tinny headphones, the girl found herself nodding along in time to the music appreciatively after the first few bars. Then her brain caught up to recognizing the tune itself, and she let our a peal of laughter at being serenaded by Rick Astley's infamous tune.

Guiltily, Taylor slapped a hand over her mouth and looked over at the curtain dividing her room from her dorm-mate's, before remembering that Tanya was out for the night at a boyfriend's. Relieved, Taylor refocused on the performance.

To her continued surprise, the man ran through the whole song, rather than moving on once the joke had been established. Despite the absurdity of the subject matter, he nevertheless managed to infuse the notes with surprising intensity and feeling, and Taylor involuntarily began to applaud at the end, continuing while the man stood up and took a dignified bow.

He then reseated himself, gently set his instrument on the bed, and reached out to pick up something else that had been lying there. It proved to be a sign, which he held up in the manner of Wile E. Coyote. Elegant golden letters on a black background spelled out:

**Would you please  
show me your boobs?**

Taylor blinked, giggled, blushed, hesitated for a second, and finally lifted her shirt to reveal a modest bosom with two starkly pebbled nubs. Grin hidden from the camera, she wiggled to move the breasts back and forth as best she could (they weren't large enough to sway or bounce) and tweaked her nipples before covering herself again. The other's mouth curled amiably, and he held up another sign.

**Delectable. Thank you.**

Taylor reddened further, the flush spreading down her neck and upper chest as the apparent temperature of the room increased. Most of the people she'd flashed before generally qualified their praise with comments like 'not bad for a thin girl,' or 'don't worry honey, you'll bloom eventually,' but a great many were dismissive or outright abhorrent in their commentary. She'd learned to be very sparing with the favor, and it was thrilling to have received a rare direct compliment, even if the delivery was unusual.

The man chose yet another signboard from what appeared to be several orderly rows laying on the bedspread.

**Would you like  
to hear more?**

Taylor immediately nodded, simultaneously murmuring her assenting “yes, thank you,” into the microphone. Though the man seemed to take no action, after a moment a new pop-up appeared over the stream, offering the option to indefinitely extend the connection. Taylor readily agreed.

_He must either have someone else running the stream, or a controller by his feet, she thought, shifting her headset to a slightly more comfortable position. That's pretty cool._

Taylor was becoming convinced that she'd stumbled into a secret Shuffle legend. The man's surroundings, abilities, and demeanor - the whole set-up spoke of long-practice and preparation. But if so, he wasn't anyone she heard of before: no violin or violin player had ever been mentioned alongside the like of 137, El_Blob, Twee, Skitters, Pandering Panda, or Bones+mai+Daddy.

This line of thought fell to the wayside as the man began to play once more: this time a classical-sounding piece that started slow and soft, but swiftly grew in energy, swooping and shrilling delicately up and down in waves. Even though he was doing nothing but playing, Taylor found herself remaining heated, the trill of the instrument seeming to resonate through her body, all the way down to the core of pleasure below her belly. Her hands curled around her thighs as the melody danced in her ears.

Even more provoking, the man's gaze never waved from his camera as he played, seeming to pin her own eyes through the screen, even though all he could truly see of her was below the neckline. Taylor's breath came shorter and shorter, her hands more and more inclined to rub, and when the music all too quickly found its conclusion, she groaned as if a physical caress had been withdrawn.

Enthralled, aroused, and a little embarrassed at how caught up she'd been, the teenager pushed herself back upright in the chair where she'd been slumping, noting she had dropped low enough for him to see the chin of her mask. 

“That was...beautiful!” Taylor breathed, once she trusted her voice. “What was it?”

Her partner reached out to the bed again.

 **An abridged adaption of  
Brahms' Violin Sonata No 1 in G,  
first movement**  
his placard informed her.

Taylor nodded to herself, scribbling the name on the cover of one of the notebooks piling her desk. It had prodded her memory, bearing a familiar sound that she couldn't quite place – music her mother liked listen to, perhaps. The piece, had been wonderful, whatever the connection.

“Thank you,” she repeated earnestly.

Applauding again, she held her hands up near the microphone to ensure the quiet clapping would be heard. The unknown musician stood and bowed in turn with solemn deliberation, and a jolt ran through Taylor as she registered a distinct tent in the crotch of his immaculately-creased trousers.

Returning to his sitting posture, the man laid down his instrument and grasped a sign in each hand this time. The right one lifted, revealing words she'd already seen:

**Would you please  
show me your boobs?**

And after a beat, the other rose as well:

**Again?**

Another laugh welled up out of her throat.

This time without hesitating, Taylor brazenly raised her shirt with one hand, bringing the other up under her mask to lick her fingers and then rub her tingling peaks with a delicate touch. The faint breeze of the room's inadequate air conditioning flowed over the bumps of stimulated flesh, hardening them further. She smiled in victory as the man adjusted himself, only for the tent to spring right back up again.

_When did it get so hot in here?_

After a moment of deliberation, Taylor threw caution to the wind and pulled her stifling shirt off altogether, careful to keep it from tangling in her headset or face covering. She was now entirely bare from waist to chin. 

A swooping sensation rippling through her stomach at her daring, Taylor looked back at the screen to find the main image of her partner regarding her avidly, the picture-in-picture reflecting his view of her topless state. The man adjusted himself again.

After a pause, the player inquired wordlessly if she wanted to hear more (again) to which Taylor readily acquiesced. However, he then displayed an entirely new sign:

**Would you prefer  
dick out? Or dick in?**

Taylor's mouth parted in pleasantly shocked surprise, and after a breathless moment to collect herself, she replied eagerly.

“Dick out...please.”

The man stood, the *zip* of his fly parting seeming to echo through Taylor's headphones. She nearly double-took when the man's penis was revealed.

A lot of men on the internet bragged about their endowments. Virtually all exaggerated: bumping three up to four, four up to five and a quarter, five up to six and half, and so on – if they didn't go straight to claiming ten or more. The cock now proudly standing at attention for her inspection was unequivocally large, a true nine inches by her estimation – not particularly thick, but all the more impressive for not having been hyped up beforehand. While Taylor would not want to encounter such an organ in real life (where she could only imagine it hurting something important if forced inside her), she would admit to indulging in aesthetic appreciation for such outliers at a safe distance.

This rod in particular was just _well-formed_ : glowing with suffused blood, not overpowered by veins, and with a sleight but natural outward curve. Its engorgement had pulled the foreskin back enough for a glimmer of light to reflect off the precum beading the tip.

The mysterious instrumentalist sat back down and picked up his violin, arranging himself into a wider stance with his manhood jutting up at at the ceiling. Again there was no major motion, but now that Taylor was watching for it, she caught the man's legs shifting slightly as if manipulating pedals, his fleshy column of cock swaying minutely.

The channel feed abruptly split, its main view moving up to the top half of the pane, while the bottom half formed two entirely new angles: one zoomed in on the instrument and hands that held them, the other a more downward facing perspective which focused on the penis above a long towel laid out on the bed between face-down signs.

_Definitely a professional...and definitely planning on getting off to this like I am. But he'll need both hands to play...?_

Taylor leaned forward, biting her lip as the man launched into another piece and her digits slid low once more, chastening her arousal to new heights.

The melody this time was not even faintly recognizable to her, but it suited Taylor's mood perfectly, setting a tempo that matched the inclination of her hands. As the notes soared through her, the girl was soon widening her own legs, the stroking of delicate fingers becoming increasingly fevered, and when the deft arpeggios gave way to a slower and languorous fantasy, she pushed down her sweatpants entirely and kicked them away, leaving herself completely open to all the stimulation hands and instrument could provide.

The tempo soon rose again, and so did her efforts, fingertips flicking, pressing, and dancing around her clitoris, prolonging the approach to climax as best Taylor was able, unwilling to cut short the theme before it had run its course.

Taylor's partner did not remain unaffected either. His manhood had swollen further, and was now pulsing ominously at the camera focused on it, yet still he remained intently focused on the heaving of her body as Taylor arched in her chair, testing the limits of it's tilt with sensuous writhing.

The music flowed on, becoming ever more urgent.

Both of their sexes were trembling now, straining at the verge of release. The masked musician's playing remained technically precise but was becoming rougher, more emphatic, bow drawing across strings with a stridency that approached violence. Dribbles of clear fluid ran from his urethra in a near-continuous stream, and as the rod bucked with the evidence of another delayed eruption, a few drops flew off like glittering jewels.

Taylor could stand it no longer.

The music swelling in her ears along with the drum of her heartbeat, the woman rose to her feet, heedless of exposure, rolling chair skidding backward as her camera's view shifted to the unshielded privates where hands ruthlessly delved. Taylor's pale fingers wove urgently through her hairy bush, parting and skimming her gleaming folds, and lapping in and out of the slick passage they surrounded with abandon.

She gloried under the inescapable attentiveness of her voyeur, thumbs circling her nub at a frenetic pace, still holding off, still prolonging her arrival for as many precious moments as possible...and at last working directly at the point highest pleasure, which took only moments to annihilate her already-frayed barriers.

The violin wailed along with her as Taylor was overwhelmed, barely able to remain upright as the potent crescendo of ecstasy shook her body. She was peripherally aware of her partner's orgasm arriving at the same time, white arcs of his semen leaping out to fall on the towel prepared for them – but the explosion wracking her took all precedence.

She abandoned herself to glorious release, all-encompassing pleasure: a timeless, perfect moment.

Finally, slowly, sight returned and, trembling with the aftershocks of fulfillment, Taylor sank back from her tiptoes into the abandoned seat, her ragged gasps for air gradually giving way to a more even pattern of inhale and exhale.

Looking up in daze, she found the musician's posture matched her own: leant back in his chair, violin set on the bedspread, almost still apart from the rise and fall of his chest. His lengthy organ now drooped between his legs, quietly dripping. Somehow the music had found its natural conclusion alongside their own, leaving a heavy but poignant silence behind, a worldly reflection of their spiritual harmony.

Some time later – it might have been seconds, hours, or minutes – Taylor finally felt compelled to speak. She was aware that her own mask had loosened, which meant, combined with her low position in the chair, that she was already showing part of her face, but that didn't matter – it was better in fact, right to be seen. Reaching up, she slipped the covering off entirely and looked directly into the camera, willing her appreciation to reach the architect of their mutual release. Taylor wanted to say far too many things, and none of them would form themselves separately, so all that issued from her mouth in the end were two heartfelt words:

“... _Thank_ -you,” she breathed.

Deliberately, the man reached up and removed his own mask, revealing a not uncomely but rather sharp-featured face, which would have been severe were it not for the warm smile upon the features, a mirror to her own.

He brought a hand to his chest, and made a gentle half-bow in his seat, before meeting her eyes once again.

“Thank- _you_ ,” his voice emerged, a deliberate and purring tenor.

There was another long moment of wordless intercourse, appreciation, and acceptance...and then the musician bowed a final time, all three viewports fading from Taylor's screen.

_Connection lost._

The teenager sat in contentment for an indeterminate span, then leaned forward, gave the channel her highest possible rating, and deactivated the browser before telling the laptop to shut down.

Moving to her bed without re-dressing, Taylor flopped down on her back, still too hot for even the scant covering of a sheet. Thoughts flowed languidly across the young woman's mind, slowed to a crawl by her fixation on the unique experience.

Tonight marked Taylor's number of white-out orgasms crossing over into double digits, the fourth time she'd shown her privates so brazenly, the first time she'd shown her face to anyone. Maybe that'd be a regret in the morning, but for now, with her body basking in a sea of euphoria? There was only one conclusion she could come to:

_This was one of the best nights ever._

Her eyes drifted closed, and within minutes Taylor Hebert fell asleep, a contented smile still lingering on her face.

*


	2. Mistakes - Worm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Came from thinking about how a Taylor/Sophia 'enemies to lovers' troupe might go, but realized I wasn't prepared to do it justice. There are a lot of obstacles to overcome for that pairing to have a believable positive dynamic – this bit was to shake Sophia out of her rut near the beginning of the story. Taylor never triggers in this AU, but still ends up being a kind of hero.

*

The hour was well past midnight, and Sophia Hess could have been asleep.

Instead, Shadow Stalker was standing in a cramped hospital room, staring down at the single, unconscious occupant.

There was a guard outside the door, but she had ghosted down from the room above. There'd be trouble were she discovered out-of-bounds like this, but the chances of actually being caught were almost negligible. The PRT was far too busy dealing with gang issues in the wake of Leviathan's attack to be hounding her footsteps as they had been before. 

Hell, the usual strictures had been all but ignored these past few days, all hands on deck needed to hold back the chaos now sweeping Brockton Bay. At any other time, the ex-vigilante would have – should have – been reveling in her new freedoms and autonomy, despite the situation.

Save for the one girl whose very existence now lodged in her mind like a splinter.

_God damn you Herbert. Why don't you make any goddamn sense!?!_

It was simply inconceivable.

Even now, almost four days later, the overwhelming certainly that someone, somewhere was lying, refused to leave. But disbelieving the video evidence was untenable. It'd been vetted, verified, and accepted as fact, and her mind now struggled to integrate it into reality.

Worthless, weak, pathetic, _loser_ Taylor Herbert had attacked Leviathan, somehow using Armsmaster's halberd to distract it from a shelter full of people.

A civilian against a fucking Endbringer, _and she'd lived._

Shadow Stalker desperately wanted to dismiss it as stupidity.

It should have been simple fucking idiocy and that was no reason to view Hebert as anything other than another cornered animal that had gotten lucky. Hebert hadn't been strong, she'd been desperate, foolish, suicidal. That was simply the way the world worked sometimes. Hebert was still Hebert, still pathetic, still nothing.

_Hebert could have stayed safe, but she'd run the other way._

Into danger.

She'd had preserved the lives of almost 700 people, providing a distraction and buying time for real heroes to arrive and re-engage the city-slayer.

Just to think it made Sophia queasy. In a single moment, an insignificant girl who'd repeatedly shown herself to be beyond worthless had saved more than double the number of lives Shadow Stalker could claim over her entire career.

She couldn't understand it.

*  
_  
The view from the camera swung and spun crazily, too fast for any frame of reference to be established, then jarred abruptly before stabilizing._

_The angle was low, the camera's owner now slumped against the building where he had come to rest. A blue-armored hand dripping red was briefly visible, before dropping away as its strength failed._

_“Armsmaster down, CB-10,” a synthetic voice stated._

_Some ways down the street, the Endbringer turned away to crouch over a squat building, tearing at it with wicked claws. Moments later, from the left of the frame, a slender figure with dark hair and round glasses entered, running closer and then kneeling..._

_“Your legs are gone,” said a female voice, its sleight quaver at odds with the eerily calm expression framed by her sodden hair. “C- can I do anything?”_

_“second pouch...left side...” came a reply. Deeper, male, and clearly in great pain. “Red-bands.”_

_The girl fumbled underneath the camera's perspective, hands coming up seconds later with several items that looked like thickened zip-ties._

_“How do they work?”_

_“Wrap one...around each...limb. A couple inches...above. Auto-tightening,” the clipped voice every Brocktonite knew as the leader of their local Protectorate enunciated slowly._

_There was a tortured shriek of metal – the camera shifted focus to look down the street as Leviathan disappeared downwards into the building it'd just been attacking. Even from this distance and over the sound of the rain, screaming was clearly audible. The girl bit her lips, hands working faster, then she stood up._

_“They're set. I-”_

_Lightning flashed and the instantaneous clap of thunder drowned out the remaining words. She cast around, shivering with cold and fear._

_After a moment she seemed to locate what she was looking for – several long steps and she scooped it out of the water: a long silver pole whose blue blade seemed smudged along the edge._

_The young woman looked back to the camera briefly, eyes wide, then turned and ran down the street, weapon clutched in a death drip. Arriving at the distant building, she paused for only a moment before vanishing after the monster._

_Moments passed, a series of little eternities, then came a sudden roar, and everything shook._

_The girl came hurtling into view again, a wave of water on her tail, followed closely by the colossal figure of a hydrokinetic demon. She ducked slashing of claws, striking out with a metallic flash, then turned to sprint down a side-street._

_The Endbringer followed with impossible agility._

_In an instant they were both gone again, leaving only the sound of labored breathing and falling rain in the microphone._

_This was broken by coughing, painful and wet, then slow, rasping words._

_“Medivac requested, CB-10.”_

_More lightning and thunder split the air, and a surge of water billowed across the pavement._

_Then more noise: explosions and thudding, crashes, whines, and a nearly subsonic hum – but these slowly grew fainter, the epicenter of destruction being drawn away._

_“Medivac requested...CB-10,” Armsmaster repeated._

_The girl staggered back into view._

_The halberd was gone._

_So was most of her left arm._

_Her face was crimson: nose obviously broken, more red pouring from a wound on her scalp where large flaps of skin were hanging free. She limped as if her right ankle could barely hold weight, with only gristle and skin still keeping the chunks of her mangled upper limb attached. Her remaining hand gripped the shoulder like a vise to slow the flow of blood from a severed artery._

_Staggering, swaying, and almost falling before struggling onward once more, a few last laborious steps brought the girl to the fallen hero where she crashed to her knees. Her hand released the wound to gush freely as she groped out of frame again. Eyes slowly glazing over, she barely managed to bring up another red band and close it around her near-stump before collapsing out of sight._

_“Medivac requested...CB...10,” whispered Armsmaster dully, his voice weakening. “M-medivac...reques...ted...”_

_The rain continued to fall._  
  
*

The ward raised her crossbow, training it on the defenseless form before her. The surrounding machines quietly beeped and hummed as Hebert slept on, oblivious.

One quick pull of the trigger and the universe would be back on track, everything would be as it should, no more contradictions.

Sophia's arm shook with the weight of the weapon as the seconds spun out and her finger refused to tighten.

_Hebert's weak._

Hebert had been strong.

_Every time we tested her – she was weak._

Every time she'd been tested, she'd been waiting for this.

_She was PREY._

She was picking her battles.

_I could kill her right now._

It would be so easy – no one could be strong all the time.

_No one could..._

Sophia didn't recall who had first said that to her, oh so long time ago, but she remembered scoffing. Anyone who wasn't always strong had to actually either be weak, or wasn't trying hard enough, and deserved what they got. It had been obvious.

She couldn't recapture that mindset now, no matter how hard she tried.

Sophia was strong.

_Had been strong._

Arm gradually sinking, she ground her teeth. The words still echoed through her head though, a drumbeat of accusation, refusing to relinquish their grip.

_“No one's strong all the time.”_

Abruptly, she went intangible and fled, flying out of the hospital window to hit the rooftops running. Sophia Hess sprinted into the night, but her recriminations kept easy pace; internal and uncompromising.

_She wasn't **ever** supposed to be strong. But she was. How did you miss it? What else have you missed?_

Too much, probably.

Faster and faster Sophia ran, vaulting first alleyways, then entire streets, ghost, then flesh, then ghost again. Rooftop gravel sprayed from under her boots. But still the conclusion remained, inescapable.

_Taylor was only weak until it mattered. And if you can't be strong all the time...that's stronger than anything else._

*


	3. Lion in a Cold Land - GoT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short focusing on Cersei Lannister when the royal party comes to Winterfell much later than in Canon. Most of the fun was thinking up the butterflies that led to the situation, the majority of which aren't even referenced, but even apart from that, I liked the theme of a weary woman discovering some affinity to an entirely alien place. Then I lewded it a bit. There were vague future notions for a Cersei/Jon continuation, or Cersei/some kind of Stark-cest polyamory clusterfuck.

*

Cersei had not wanted to come north. Still less, however, had been her desire to remain in King’s Landing and brood over Joffrey’s death. 

The Red Keep felt like a prison to her now, and it was thick with memories of her children. So many memories, some joyous and some sad…and now memories were all that was left, memories and the three small tombs that she could not bear to visit. The Queen almost welcomed the ever-deepening cold which now greeted them every morning, as it suited the tearing ache in her heart far more than the stifling warmth in Kings Landing.

Ahead of the wheel-house in which she sat, garbed in black and pointedly ignoring her diminutive sibling, Cersei’s husband Robert was riding with the several members of the Kingsgaurd and nobles that made their party. Ser Barristan had remained behind with two of his sworn comrades to assist Uncle Kevan, which left Ser Meryn, Ser Loras, and…the Kingslayer…accompanying them on the road.

Cersei and Jamie had scarcely held four conversations in the last four months, and the last of them had put to rest any desire of ever having another, at least for her.

_No longer her ally, no longer her friend, no longer her…anything._

He had become pathetic.

Cersei wanted to hate him for that.

_Two years ago, I would have._

Would have _passionately_ hated him for it, as she had passionately loved him - but that version of herself was so distant from today that they might as well be strangers to each other. She had little fire left, and it was already spent on other ires. Her passions had mainly been displaced by grief, and towards her brother's latest cowardice she felt only – disappointment, mixed with distaste.

_He would have been kinder to finish what he started._

She no longer hoped for kindness, or peace, or even death. Mechanically she acted in her position, wielded her fading power, but with no source of happiness left in her life, no legacy, it gave Cersei little pleasure to be Queen. It was simply a role in which she existed, and would soon be transplanted from.

_I shall not have to wait much longer, I suspect. I was ready to die, could not his courage have held for a few moments longer?_

Cersei’s hand rose unconsciously to her neck and brushed the hollow above the collarbone. An abrupt lurch of the carriage caused her to almost strike the tender flesh, and she dropped the arm in sudden self-consciousness. Lacing fingers in her lap, Cersei turned her attention out the window again.

Their caravan was almost at Winterfell, and the Queen took the last opportunity to compose herself and replenish sorely depleted reserves of patience and sociability. Her mourning period had allowed her a blessed reprieve from the chattering lackwits in the King's Landing, but there would be no escaping the courtly requirement of her position for a while. It was a minor miracle that Tyrion had not broken the silence with his poisoned tongue so far today.

_He and Father spoke before we left the city. Perhaps he, too, heard words not to his liking._

Cersei suspected her stunted brother had asked for Casterly Rock and been rebuffed, again.

_We are both Father’s cast-offs._

It was odd, feeling even a spark of kinship with the imp she’d loathed for so long. But Tyrion had found more success than Cersei had in some ways. He certainly butted heads with their father more effectively than she did, and in the last few years the behavior which had earned him his nickname was fading under the presence of a ruthless and frankly disturbing political insight. Despite this, Cersei knew Tyrion would never be the son her father wanted.

_All his children have disappointed him._

She took a sleight, a very sleight, satisfaction in that.

_Soon I’ll be able to go my own way, Father. Away from you. A pity it only cost me everything._

'Free' wasn’t quite the correct term for what she had to look forward to.

But even being cloistered in an abbey would be freedom compared to living in her family's shadow, always following her Father's plan for her life. A plan that, so far, had left her married to a drunken shell of a man, a court plotting against her, and three dead children. All her ambitions turned to dust. 

The sooner she could leave that behind the better, as far as Cersei was concerned. In an abbey there would at least be quiet, and perhaps a kind of peace might find her in time. She was not pious, but willing to make a show of it to escape the banality and distastefulness of King's Landing.

_And avoid another sham marriage._

Cersei sighed. Her mind couldn’t seem to stop wandering. Studying the stag embroidery on the seat across from her for the umpteenth time that day, she wondered how serious her father had been when he-

“A penny for your thoughts, dear sister?”

Of course, the silence couldn’t last with her busy-body of a brother nearby.

Cersei opened her mouth, intending to respond with a cutting remark about his presumption to address her, or possibly a sarcastic dismissal of any possible interest in her thoughts; something to put him in his place and shut him up at any rate-

“I like the snow.”

She blinked, taken aback at her own frank admission. Tyrion, who had apparently anticipated a far different answer as well, repeated her words slowly, puzzlement marring his already crumpled brow.

“You…like the snow. Why?”

Cersei turned her head look back out the window at the silent, and glittering waste beyond the stones of the road. She hadn’t meant to say that, had hoped to retreat back into the silence that sustained and surrounded her. She did not know why she had spoken so honestly in the first place. Perhaps it had simply been the easiest thing to do.

_Why did she like the snow?_

Though summer had barely ended in King's Landing, snow had become a constant companion once they passed Moat Cailin. First, it had hid in small shadowed patches the sun never saw, then began creeping out from sheltering banks and under trees until it covered branches, fields, and pastures with ivory garments. Thicker and thicker it had grown, and now it was the patches of bare earth that were rare. 

Five nights ago night, it had fallen from the sky for the first time, coating the entire camp with an inch of powder by the time the sun rose in the morning. The large rivers still flowed freely, but ice had begun edging in on the brooks and streams, and clung to the base of the cobblestone bridges the royal caravan traversed.

There had been precious little else to see in many leagues, and by all rights Cersei should have been sick of the sight. Yet the mild winters she remembered spending in the capital and at Casterly Rock were so different from the scenery surrounding them.

In the south, even winter lay lightly, always seeming like a visitor: their snowfalls often managed to melt away before more came to replace them. These harsh and alien hills, frozen and now drowned in alabaster, were unlike any terrain she had been accustomed to enjoy the sight of. There was little civilization, fewer colors, and no sense of welcome at all. By all reasoning, she should have loathed it.

Yet the unspeaking, uncompromising, and uncaring landscape washed over Cersei like a gentle wind, slowing and numbing her thoughts where all her own efforts failed. The inescapable snow was not comforting, or even friendly – the night chill was inescapable, and so bitter it cut – and yet…it made no demands on her. The sweeping blankets of white simply were - without interference from, or concern with, Cersei - and that was a pleasant change from all she had been accustomed to.

“One could just sink into a drift and vanish,” she murmured softly, more to herself than in answer to her sibling’s inquiry.

Tyrion gave her an odd look, and seemed on the verge of making one of his usual witticisms before changing his mind.

“Yes, I suppose so,” he said in a neutral tone, looking away again and out his own window.

And, remarkably, he remained silent, and did not speak again until they reached the gates of Winterfell. For that, Cersei was grateful.

*

Queen Cersei Baratheon went through the formality of introductions with an empty smile on her face. She paid little heed as her husband boisterously embraced Lord Stark, nor took much interest in the names of the sundry Stark children as they each made their way forward to bow or curtsy to her. Rather, her mind had become preoccupied with the general cast of the new faces around her, and considering how well they suited the bleak landscape.

The Starks, their servants, their bannermen – all had something of cold and ruggedness about them. An abundance of generally dark and long hair put Cersei in mind of the pelts of beasts. Most had sharp features and sharper gazes: though their bodies might bow, the mind inside did not, always holding an edge; cold, hard, and observant. _My true lord is winter, their eyes seemed to say. Your golden crown does not impress us, for it will not impress winter – and winter is always coming._

Catlyn Stark had been born a Tully, the queen recalled, but even she seemed to have been converted to, or perhaps cultivated, a fraction of that ice herself. Perhaps it was an inevitable consequence of the land, so uncompromising that it shaped residents to fit itself, rather than the other way round.

_If I tarried here too long, would I, also, become a Queen of Frost?_

Even the softest visage present – Lady Stark's copper-haired elder daughter – even she had winter steel and stone lurking beneath her polite words and graceful courtesies. The younger sister was even more striking: northern chill emanating from her with full force. The girl's gray eyes put Cersei in mind of the rivers they had passed, and seemed to be suppressing a peculiarly familiar form of irritation too.

Her look resonated with the Queen. Idly, she wondered where she had seen it before, and what it had meant. 

Taken together, these repeated differences made Cersei, with her softer southern hands and features, feel distinctly set apart. Here is no place for you, the Northerners’ appearance said without words, over and over again. You are a child of summer.

The introductions continued, with Lord and Lady Stark speaking for their bannermen, and Robert speaking for his retinue. Queen Cersei nodded at each face as generic words fell from her trained lips without thought, her mind still wandering as suited its fancy. The woman felt a strange desire to laugh at the entire charade. She would soon be The-Queen-That-Was, irrelevant, yet everyone was bending over backward to pretend otherwise.

Lady Catlyn’s offer of hospitality finally accepted, the droning was concluded – _at least until the welcoming feast_ , Cersei thought with dry resignation – and the occupants of the courtyard began dispersing themselves to quarters and conversation. The youngest Stark daughter was off like a shot, headed for a freedom that Cersei could now only dimly remember.

Sighing, she allowed herself to be led to the chambers provided for her use. Thankfully, she would not be condemned to a room with her odious husband, it being an accepted fact that king and queen no longer shared company at nights. Winterfell had a King’s Tower, but one so large the royal visit would occupy only the bottom four floors of it – their more noble retainers and Robert on the first three, and Cersei and her attendants on the fourth. Over seventy royals, courtiers, and their servants, and still more than half the tower would remain unoccupied. Privately, the queen thought this arrangement had been requested to spare the Oaf King any necessity of climbing steps.

Nevertheless, it would offer her a modicum of privacy and peace, which suited Cersei . She allowed her handmaidens to fuss and bustle, moving in belonging and arranging her baggage, then dismissed them, claiming tiredness and a desire to sleep until the inevitable dinner.

Once alone, the Queen finally the dropped the strained smile she had been holding on her face and allowed her features to shift into relieved distaste. Truly, there was little she had come to hate so much as courtesy. While she had been a locus of power, such attentions had been flattering and she had preened under them. With her star now fading, they felt more and more like mocking insults. Perhaps that was all they ever had been.

There was a cheery blaze dancing in the fireplace, but Cersei ignored it in favor of the large window that lay opposite the door. Looking out, she found herself staring down into the archery training yard. Several figures whom she did not recognize were at practice, taking it in turns to loose arrows at various targets on the range. After watching them for several minutes, she realized with a start that one of the practitioners was the younger Stark girl. Wonder, and bitter kind of envy, bloomed briefly within her. It was apparent that Lord Stark was a far different kind of father than her own had been.

After some time, the cold seeping past the thick glass finally began to provoke shivers, so Cersei left the view and stood by her hearth until warmth re-suffused her limbs. She did not feel much like sleeping, that excuse more for the purpose of giving her solitude, but there was little else to do. 

Opening a small chest among her personal belongings, the Queen appraised the few books she’d brought, but found them all lacking. Idly, she swirled her hand through some jewelry, before extracting a small gold plated key. She spun it through her fingers for long moments before finally arriving at a decision. Pulling up a corner of the felt lining the bottom, she inserted the key into a revealed slot and turned. The chest clicked, and a shallow drawer popped out of the side of the container. Carrying this drawer over to her bed, she set it down on the foot of the resting-place, before walking over and sliding home the bolt in the door.

Returning to the bed, Cersei merely sat for a while, lost in thought, before shaking her head and stalking back to the window, worrying her lip. For a further minute she stared outside, focusing on nothing, then came back to the drawer. Gazing down into it, she let her left hand trail over the contents, figures tracing the irregular protrusions and ridges of the assorted objects it contained. Finally, she pushed the tray to the center of the bed and reclined next to it, staring at the canopy above.

After a while, her right hand reached out and gingerly touched the resting items.

Cersei picked one at random and brought up, absently studying its dull surfaces. It resembled the head of a walking cane, or a side-swept sword handle and pommel. The piece had been carved from a single piece of amber granite, and slowly warmed as she tumbled it between her fingers. Not much bigger than one of her own digits, though substantially thicker, one end flared into a base that allowed the stone carving to be set upright. It, and all the contents of her private box, had come from the Summer Islands, and were meant to assist one in furthering one’s own pleasure.

Still rolling the object in one hand, Cersei reached down and pulled at the cloth of her sleeping garment, drawing it upwards until the full length of her milky legs were exposed, and the hem rasped over the hair at her crotch. She took a moment to let the air of the room flow over her, before dropping the hand with its toy to roll over her private entrance.

For several minutes she let the smoothly textured protrusion stroke, rub, and press against her, but it brought forth no responsive heat from her core. Disappointed, the Queen dropped it back into its box. Folding her hands over her belly, she spread her legs defiantly wider and glowered past the overhanging cloth in frustration.

Without J- _the Kingslayer_ , much had lost its appeal. Yet Cersei still occasionally felt the demands of her body, and sometimes their insistence overrode even her apathy, though she now had no companion to sate her lust. At others, she sought to lose herself in the familiar bliss of release, but the flesh would not indulge her whims. Her brother had fulfilled Cersei's sexual needs for so long that she was at a loss without him, even the best self-pleasure usually a pale echo of the delights of the past. It had only ever been good with Jamie, or thinking on him. She had loved no one else...save Rhaegar.

_Rhaegar._

Beautiful, soulful, long-dead Rhaegar.

Years ago, Cersei had followed the prince longingly with her eyes on the few occasions she had been in his presence. The image of him wrapped within her legs and thrusting as he gazed down at her had been a common fantasy when her brother was unavailable.

But now she could not think of that handsome face without imagining it squashed like fruit under a mallet, which always led to the familiar image of bullish, sweating Robert, rutting against her hands like a pig. If she'd carried less hatred for the man, Cersei might have turned her face away and consented to using her husband for her needs, but he had destroyed any chance of harmony with those words on their wedding night. She'd only ever been wet for the Baratheon once, and it hadn't lasted a candlemark. 

So Cersei had turned back to her brother, until finally even he had abandoned her, and now, after her love for Jamie and Rhaegar was all spent, other men seemed faded and dull, unable to stir either her heart or loins from cool disinterest. 

Inquisitively, Cersei let a hand investigate her folds. They remained aggravatingly dry, the momentary bursts of stimulation failing to elicit their desired response.

She hated each of them with a dull but potent rage: Jamie for not being Robert and leaving her, Robert for not being Rhaegar and instead killing him, and Rhaegar for not killing Robert and dying before they could be wed. Despised them all for failing to be men every time it mattered most. Loathed them bitterly for loving other women _when they should have loved **her**_.

She had been willing to give Robert a chance, despite his part in her shattered dreams, but he had instantly squandered it, and then continued to demonstrate that he was worth little and less. Had he held even half the virtue Rhaegar had, the Baratheon could have been a decent king, a decent husband, but had been determined to prove his unfitness for anything besides war.

Together, she and Rhaegar would have outshone anyone: Cersei with her hair of gold, Rhaegar with his hair of silver, two divinities in mortal form, the Maiden and the Warrior joined as King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. A perfect, beautiful dream, cut short by politics, pettiness, and war. Her last sight of Rhaegar had been at the tournament where it all started toppling: he had been melancholic yet more handsome than ever, elegant in armor, unstoppable on the jousting field, his silver hair dancing around those fathomless purple eyes.

_And Jamie..._

She must not think of her twin. It was cruel, horrific how a lifetime of love could be so swiftly turned to its opposite.

Cersei reached for a bottle and, uncorking it, was greeted by the pleasant aroma of rosemary. She poured a measure of thick oil on her fingers and lay back, slowly working the lubricant into her skin and sex, kneading to relax the unresponsive flesh.

_Rhaegar and the Starks have almost the same hair, she mused, thinking of the way the wind had caught the locks of her hosting Lord and his offspring. Not the color...but the spirit and wildness of it. What was the daughter's name?…Arya Stark. She and that bastard could have been Rhaegar's cousins had their hair been silver. Wild and untamable and long…oh my handsome Rhaegar._

Despite her efforts, the memory of Robert surged in on her again and Cersei cursed. She had almost felt the old fire for a moment! Almost uncomfortably warm, but not in the way she wished, Cersei sat up irritably and pulled off her smallclothes completely, tossing them to the floor. Determinedly rubbing more oil into her palms, she took a kneeling position on the bed as both hands caressed and curled. Straining into the pressure, the woman willed herself to arousal, now determined to succeed in her indulgence despite the lack of effective stimulus.

Sometimes she was able to brute-force an orgasm with physical ministrations alone, relying solely on hands or toys with a mind kept carefully blank until sheer intensity of sensation pushed her over the edge. This never felt truly satisfactory however, and left Cersei lethargic and depressed. 

Very infrequently, she was able to focus on the appearance of a handsome lordling effectively enough to provoke release, and while this was much more satisfying in body, it still tended to grate on her mind, for once the illusion of the moment faded, she was inevitably left with more disdain and repulsion for the dwindling field of her potential suitors. 

And while she had a few times indulged in the company of a female courtier, Lady Taena, the woman’s overt ambition had eventually soured Cersei on continuing the laison. The likelihood of finding another woman of such inclinations and discretion was practically non-existent. 

There would likely be no more bed-partners for her.

If her Father forced Cersei to re-marry – and there was no doubt he would try, eventually – it would likely be an old lordling, useless in the bedchamber; picked for political advantage and nothing else. 

_No young lords for an 'infertile' former queen either._

In truth, Cersei would have taken moon tea to enforce this charade if necessary, though it had not proved so. She neither wanted nor needed more children, and anyway, knew that they would not arrive. The seer’s words had already been proven true, save perhaps that her brother might one day finish the job of destroying her last spark. Cersei no longer cared if he did or not. Life was ashes, and even the most brutal indulgence of flesh could only prove a passing diversion.

Still, her present dogged pursuit was coming to nothing. Though now dripping with oil, none of the wetness was of her own making – Cersei remained distant and unengaged in spirit. Her teeth baring in a soundless snarl, she redoubled the efforts of her hands, and bent thoughts on finding a fantasy that would unlock the desired oblivion.

Several of the court that had accompanied them were decently handsome, though all were swiftly discarded as Cersei was unable to forget how pandering or unintelligent they were behind their obsequious masks. Her cousin Lancel managed to elicit a twinge of interest, which burst as soon as she realized her mind was searching for a substitute to Jamie. Before her ire could rise once more, she leapt on to other subjects.

Scenarios flitted through her head too, some darkly satisfying, such as being pulled from her wheelhouse and being ravaged by indistinct but handsome bandits. Let the court and her worthless husband watch, they already viewed her as spoiled goods anyway. Why should she not be carried off by wildmen, fucked in the mud, and allowed to walk with bare breasts and a bloody sword in her hand? 

Or perhaps she could buy body-slaves and have them arrange themselves into an obscene seat, so she could sit beside the Iron Throne on a living chair: a cock in each hand two up her arse. This was an oddly pleasing image. Leaving one hand to continue its work on her groin, Cersei half-rose to kneel on the bedspread and reached the other around to massage her posterior, slowly working lubricant in between and over the cheeks until she slipped a finger through the puckered ring of flesh between them.

Perhaps she would lead Robert’s prize stallion into the royal bedchamber and use her hands to bring it to ejaculate on their marriage bed. Well, no, Cersei would never actually do that, though she had heard the song. The minstrel’s hands and tongue had been cut off by her father, but she still remembered every verse.

She did not want to think about her family right now.

There was a bastard in Kings Landings, a Waters, who looked dissimilar enough to Rhaegar not to conjure him. Purple eyes could still look up at her in worship as she rode him in her exile, holding her nun’s robe high to let her hips lock with his. Or he could dress as a priest and give her the opportunity for ‘confession.’ This thinking did manage to rouse some flicker of excitement from her loins, but it was still frustratingly distant.

Lord Stark’s eldest son was passably handsome. He was powerfully built under his furs, probably able to hold her up and fuck her standing, like Ja- like she had once experienced. However, his eyes were dull, lacking the fire she had wanted and seen in Rhaegar. She imagined herself sneaking into his bedroom at night, and forcing him to give her a Queen’s pleasure. He would melt beneath her attentions: even in their brief introduction, his subtle discomforts had been enough to inform her he was a man who had never known a woman. Whimsy turned stale as she imagined what a submissive fool he would be in bed.

His youngest sister though, had a spark in her eyes, and the wild hair that once again put Cersei in mind of Rhaegar. 

Hair and eyes shared with her father (Cersei couldn’t even pretend to think of Eddard Stark as anything but a cold fish)…and the bastard, Snow.

Snow’s eyes had not exactly been fiery – he was a northman after all – but they were alive: chips of shadowed ice, experienced and well-traveled, interested in what they saw, hiding behind the control of suspicion. Cersei recalled he had looked substantially less kempt than his legitimate siblings, and travel-weary besides. Hadn’t there been mention of he and the Night's Watch representative only arriving that morning? Perhaps that explained it.

Something in Cersei pulsed, and she realized that while the oil was slowly losing its efficacy, not all of the slickness under her fingers artificial. An indolent heat had begun chafing at her crux, slowly permeating the cluster of nerves where her legs joined. Re-oiling as quickly as she could, Cersei gently probed at both holes once more, delighting in the slick motion now occurring between her lower lips, and the sinful intrusion into her rear. Trying to pick up the trail of her thought, still kneeling, Cersei arched back and closed her eyes.

The Stark bastard looked fit, strong like his brother, but lean where the other hinted towards stoutness. Very nearly a man in body, and far more of one than his age should be in mind, if one judged by the eyes. Piercing, with the hint of cleverness to them, they had looked ridiculously at home in the frigid land of Winterfell. Bastards were coarser than normal men too, more prone to desire…and debauchery.

A second finger slid into Cersei’s arse, then a third as she imagined Snow buggering her up against the wall of that blasted wheelhouse. Tearing her finery, cupping her buttocks, heedless of all the lords and ladies unable to aid her, he would pound Cersei’s forbidden hole over and over as his giant beast kept everyone at bay. Cersei would gleefully spread herself for him, a lion taken by the wolf, rutting like animals in the forest, then pin him underneath her until his bastard seed flooded her belly.

Waves of pleasure were building now, pressure elevated to a breaking point as muscles tensed and spasmed. The hand in her privates was gliding easily, oil washing away under the natural product of her own stimulation.  
_  
He would take her that very evening._

_As they all feasted, the hard-eyed, bastard-born son of Stark would burst through the door, clad in nothing but a cloak._

_He would stride to her place at the high table, brushing aside her husband like the paltry man Robert was._

_He would kneel before her and ask leave to fuck, to ravish , to debauch her - and she would consider for only a moment before agreeing._

_All the court and their hosts would do nothing but watch as Snow lifted the Queen out of her clothes and took her right there on the table, heedless of the mess they caused as they thrashed through food and drink alike, coupling with obscene urgency, his cock penetrating her anyway and everyway, his mouth catering to her every whim. Cersei's screams of pleasure would drown out the world and she would be so, so close, but hold off nearly forever, refusing to let anyone leave until they had witnessed her pleasure, how she reveled in freedom, and finally Snow would flood her while his wolf stood on its hind legs and doused her face with its own copious seed. Then she would minister to its cock, as its master’s plundered her once more from behind-_  
  
Cersei came.

Shuddering, trembling, biting down on her lip to keep from crying out, she collapsed sideways onto her pillows, legs spasming, nipples taut and pebbled in the cool air. Hands clutching at her insides, she was shaken for almost half a minute by the aftershocks of the potent orgasm. The hair across her face fluttered from her breath as the queen's complexion slowly faded from cherry red, rasps slowly leveling out to a less frantic intensity. Bringing up the hand from her vagina, Cersei absently tasted herself as the other hand continued to work slow circles in her gut, prolonging the retreat from that heady plateau.

She felt…content.

It had been a satisfying release, even if – as she looked back over what she had imagined in the heat of the moment – some were acts she would never normally contemplate. If Cersei were honest, the bestial end of the fantasy now made her feel slightly sick. But that was trivial compared the success she’d had in reliving her tension. It hadn’t been as good as true sex – but far better than anything had been for a long time.

Drowsily, the woman lay on her covers, thinking on nothing in particular, until at last the room’s chill began to make her uncomfortable. Gathering the tools back up again, Cersei re-hid her box of indulgent accessories and climbed back into bed, still naked and gloriously satiated.

 _Perhaps coming North was not too terrible_ , she mused as she wrapped herself with the surprisingly soft linens. _At least I found one moment to cherish._

Just before the queen drifted off, she saw fresh snow drifting down outside the window.

*


	4. Good Girls Never Win - Worm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taylor triggers with Nice Guy's power, but her life continues to fall apart. An accident leads her to perform a desperate act to keep her last connection from fading.

*

“Emma,” Sophia Hess let out a sigh. “Are we done with this whole Taylor thing? It's getting old.”

Emma Barnes blinked at her friend. A part of her still wanted to see Taylor _completely_ ground to dust in her wake ( _no guilt,_ she reminded herself)...but Sophia had a point. Their efforts were getting rather empty. Taylor wasn't going to change.

She said as much to her best friend.

“You've already proved she's useless,” agreed Sophia, gesturing to the recently-taken Polaroids of a sobbing girl in various phases of humiliation, desperation, and finally, complete anguish. “She's not strong, never gonna be a survivor. Never gonna matter.”

And she really didn't anymore, Emma realized. Sophia had hit the nail on the head. Taylor couldn't amount to anything, and she, Emma, should stop bothering.

“Well, maybe it's time to do something about Janet Mickelson?” asked Madison slyly. She directed a significant look at the redhead. “She's been getting flirty with Mark Halifax, I hear.”

Their leader bristled but allowed a cruel smile to grace her face. Mark was going to be her dance date next month...if he knew what was good for him. Janet obviously hadn't got the memo.

“If you're done...can I take these?” the fourth member of their group asked.

“Oh, sure, go ahead, Taylor,” Emma absently waved a hand in permission to the close-cropped black-haired girl. Always so polite. Even Sophia could learn something from her.

The other began to gather up the photographs. For a moment, her hand trembled and Emma hoped her acquaintance wasn't cold. Maybe she should ask her dad to turn the heat up? But after that first pause, the girl didn't stop, moving methodically until she had all the pictures in a stack clutched tight to her chest.

“...These are all of them?” she asked Emma, slowly.

“Yeah,” the teen confirmed. “Do what you want with them.” Holding onto a memento of when Taylor finally broke the wrong direction would still be one tie too many for her. It was time to move on. “Now Madison, I need _details_...”

The fourth left without a word. Emma had already dismissed the teen from her mind before her bedroom door closed. There was no need to concern one's self with nice girls.

*

A week later, Taylor Hebert watched as those same pictures curled and blackened in the stove's gas flame, feeding them in as tears rolled down her face. She'd finally had _proof_ , was bringing it forward, was finally going to get _justice_ (despite what it would cost her), but when she'd walked into Blackwell's office and looked into that blank, slightly puzzled face-

“ _You again, Ms. Hebert.” “What is it this week?” “I'm getting tired of that excuse.” “What is it **now** , Hebert?”_

-she _known_ , even before the perplexed “...Who are you, again?” emerged from that hated mouth, that all her hopes were futile.

Everywhere she went, it was the same. Taylor could number the people who remembered her name _at all_ on one hand-

_-and the Trio **shouldn't** count-_

-and no matter how many time she introduced herself to someone _new_ , it made no difference. She was always forgotten.

...Even her dad wasn't consistent.

The pictures were soon gone, but Taylor only cried harder.

_Powers just made it worse._

*

She was alone.

Unaccosted, finally, and grateful for that, but nothing else.

_She'd had a lifetime of being isolated by cruelty. Now she was isolated by disinterest._

There was no off switch, no dial. Nothing that could make her relevant in the minds of others beyond a vague level of presence. She'd screamed her father's every fault in his face, and while he'd winced and covered his ears and looked sad, when she was done he'd just said “okay,” and forgotten about it before half a minute had passed.

She'd felt sick afterwards, the hateful words she'd never meant to speak pursuing Taylor into her nightmares. And he couldn't forgive her because he didn't even remember.

She was an insubstantial stone in the stream of life: water parted around her but did not ripple.

Taylor grit her teeth and bore it.

_It hurt._

*

Her grades were rebounding, for a name on a paper meant that _someone_ existed to write it, and if one could have set aside the crippling loneliness (one couldn't), Taylor would have said her life had never been as good since her mother passed. But with cruel irony, as she learned to cope with the prison of anonymity, her father was sinking back towards a low she remembered with an all too distinct dread.

Most of the time, their conversations were the talk exchanged between strangers, moments of father and daughter connection lost soon after they occurred. Danny Hebert wasn't consciously aware of it and couldn't admit to it (and now he'd be candid about almost anything if she asked) but his gut seemed to recognize the new barrier between them better than his waking mind.

The first time he woke with a nightmare about her dying, Taylor had listened in abject horror as he described a dream of receiving letters announcing her funeral in the mail, and not until she shook him and promised, “Dad! I'm still here!” had the spell been broken.

But still the dreams crept in, with ever increasing frequency, and he was alone, and she was alone, and once again it was all too much to bear, but worse this time, since at least before, there had still been _some_ support in that withered connection.

Soon, Taylor was having new phantasms of her own, visions of her father killing himself because he couldn't remember that she was alive.

They seemed far too likely to become reality.

*

The holiday break finally arrived.

It was a long-shot, a fool's hope, and privately, Taylor admitted it was selfish more than anything else. Gone were the days when she could climb into bed between her two parents and rest safely, knowing they were a fortress protecting against all the monsters of the world. But she could pretend, and maybe – for one night at least – recapture a little of that childhood comfort. And if anything in it jogged her father's memory too, she'd take that and be grateful.

_Maybe she wouldn't have the chance for much longer._

Taylor crushed this thought down, but it refused to fade completely.

She'd been wearing her mom's old clothes to bed for years, and her last pair of pajamas had grown small: they pinched around her hips, and left her belly and half her calves unprotected. She wore them anyway, the faded print of tropical fish that had complimented Emma's coral reef design still eliciting associative pain, but not as much as she'd expected. (The memories of family and safety were stronger.)

Burrowing up against her father's side as he read after his shower earned neither acknowledgment or rebuke, and when he flicked of the light and turned over with a mumbled “sleep well, Little Owl,” Taylor let out a great shuddering breath and curled up against him, back to back, and let herself be lulled of to sleep by that plane of human warmth.

*

Taylor dreamed of sandboxes and parks, of the birthday where she'd fallen into her cake, and of riding her wagon down Captain's Hill into the Bay, where it became a schooner, and she, a pirate queen.

She woke to find the world still gently rocking, her dad pressed up against her with one arm out-flung, and something hot and fleshy smearing itself along her side.

Before she could properly excise the bleariness of sleep from her eyes and mind and register the situation, there was a grunt, and Taylor's belly became sticky while her bedmate mumbled “Annette...” softly into the pillow. Then he rolled back, still asleep. Uncomprehending, Taylor stared at the peculiar red-capped pillar sticking out of her dad's underwear until finally, illumination came.

Then, she bolted from the bed and flung herself into the bathroom, where she washed repeatedly with a soapy cloth, then took a long shower, then another, longer shower, and then yet another, all the while unable to stop shaking.

*

It had been an accident, a tragedy, completely outside of her control.

It wouldn't happen again.

_It had never happened at all._

Taylor was fine. (She could never make it unhappen, no matter how much she wished to.)

She promised herself that everything would be okay, and it was...until her father came down and said 'good morning' with a smile on his face and _proceeded to remember her name for the rest of the day._

Taylor fled from supper, and threw up in the toilet.

Her dad made everything worse by coming up to ask if she was okay.

*

After disgust, debate, self-flagellation, and soul-searching, **Hypothesis:**

_The less depressed dad was, the more likely he was to recognize her._

**Supporting Data:**

_He's better at the start of the week than the end. He's better in the mornings than in the evenings. And there was one single accidental incident of nighttime ejaculation, after which he did not have trouble recognizing me for a while._

_**Possible Conclusion:** _

_If dad ejaculates, he's better at remembering me._

On the 23rd of December, Taylor's dad once again didn't greet her at breakfast, or for the rest of the day. The inverted fortunes were too cruel to be endured.

**Verification:**

_~~Must never be attempted.~~ (...I don't want to be forgotten.)_

*

It was Christmas morning.

_It had been impossible...and far too easy._

_Not looking helped. She could hug, clasp an arm or a leg, hold his chest even – from the other side, where there was no danger – and it was all easy and familiar (yet unfamiliar). Doing more was difficult, and she knew she shouldn't, so she didn't. Most of the night passed that way and she thought about it, sleepless, but **didn't** act. It was a relief not to. She'd passed the test of madness, could leave it all behind._

_Until he started dreaming._

_The sounds were small, and sad and broken, and almost broke her just listening to them. Did break her restraint, undammed the tears when her mother's name escaped his lips like a plea. Lonely, wanting, bereft – just as Taylor was. Even sleeping, he wept too, and desperate for it to stop, she'd grabbed (clumsily, outside all the fabrics) somehow adhering to her insane plan before first thoughts could even properly be formed._

_He'd stilled, and she'd been frozen. A line crossed, and the world didn't end (why hadn't it ended?)._

_Academic surprise then. Softness, floppiness. Giving way to their opposites as the minutes passed. An indistinct shape. Warmth, then very warm. The heat of blood, redirected. Diagrams and abstract words could not prepare anyone for this reality. His breathing regular, while hers was so faint it may well not have existed._

_Was it bravery or cowardice that moved her hand up, and then under the sheet and blanket?_

_Less vague then. Definition and a heartbeat, only a millimeter of cotton separating skin from skin. A damp spot at the top, becoming damper as her thumb traced and re-traced it._

_The pulse thudding against her other fingers, and the occasional twitch that was **not** at all a heartbeat. Her father's very life in her hand. His face serene, untroubled, hers red with shame. Too hot. Pushing away the covers and almost looking..._

_Putting the covers back. Stop everything before it was too late. She did. Letting it go...but then reaching under the last layer instead, despite herself. Really quickly, just for a moment. Curiosity and fatalism – surely it couldn't be that much worse? Just for a moment._

_Just for a moment._

_Somehow like the texture of her own private places. A different configuration, certainly, but shockingly alike to touch. It was the wetness that did it, uncannily familiar, even if it was oozing from a tip and not from within hanging folds. She spread the slick around, testing._

_Coarse hair, also recognizable. Her head had been her mother's and her downstairs her father's and that didn't make any sense. But it was just for another moment, Taylor reminded herself. She wasn't thinking anymore, but thought was impossible anyway, and what was left...what was left was easy. Action. (Why so easy?)_

_She'd practiced the motion, a little, once or twice. On a broom handle, on her bedpost – long ago. Laughed to herself, then forgotten. Now remembered. It wasn't anything like those clumsy, inanimate explorations._

_Advance, retreat. Simple. Pliable, pulsing, and oh so hot. Yielding, yet somehow seeking her. A bit faster. Was he waking? No. She was safe. A little longer then. A little faster. (Squelch, squelch, squelch.) Hotter, Harder. A steady rhythm, the motion becoming more practiced, the twitches more frequent._

_Each new moment a new discovery of daring. What did it look like? Could seeing **really** be so much worse than what she was already doing? Knead and stroke. Did the heat come from his shaft or her hand? Almost fun, when it should have been the complete opposite. The wonders of losing your mind. There was a giggle hiding somewhere deep down inside her. _

_**This** was what she had been afraid of? It was so simple. Maybe she should...oh._

_Frozen, while the wetness in her grip compounded, changed, became thicker. Surged against her twice, thrice. Burbled. Slackened. Stopped._

_Taylor's hand emerged, stained and dripping with something which both flowed and clung._

_She rose soundlessly and walked into the bathroom to just stare at the hand, her hand, gleaming with foreign excretions and a scent she'd never cataloged. Droplets fell intermittently to the sink. Ran down her arm, into her sleeve. She turned the hand over, forward and back, then forward again. Studying._

_Before she knew it, her father was stirring in the other room, so Taylor calmly washed herself off and walked downstairs._

_Breakfast (the most important meal of the day). She set out cereal and milk._

_White like things in the night._

Now she waited at the kitchen table, trembling, small bites gathering like lead in her stomach. (What had she done?)

_Did he realize? Did he hate her now? What was going to happen? Why hadn't the world ended? What was it waiting for?_

“Good morning Taylor.”

_Unsuspicious. Just a parent, greeting their child._

_...Or laying a trap?_

Taylor bit down on relief, confusion, horror, and who knew what else, bundled it up, and turned it into a cough. Her mouth moved for her.

“...Good morning...dad.”

Spoons clinked in bowls, cereal hissed and cracked.

_How would she know that he knew? If he knew? What would he say?_

“...I dreamed about your Mom last night.”

Taylor didn't dare look up.

“Yeah?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

After half a minute, when nothing else was forthcoming:

“Was it good dream?” she ventured. Waited on tenterhooks.

_Damn her, damn her, already double-damned. Taylor was sinking further into perdition with every passing moment._

A brief glance showed her father's cheeks were faintly pink as he gazed into the middle distance. He shook himself.

“Yeah, not the...car one, for once.”

_That's good,_ Taylor wanted to say.

Instead, she retreated, a half-eaten serving of Crispy Pops abandoned behind her.

Curling up in bed, Taylor waited to be struck down for her transgressions, but the universe seemed content to ignore her, even now.

Eventually, she fell asleep.

*

Christmas dinner was quiet.

Taylor Hebert received a framed picture of Saratoga Beach, the programming guide she'd asked for, and a new set of pajamas.

“I noticed yours were getting a bit small,” her father said with a gentle, hopeful smile.

She smiled back, and waited for him to finished unwrapping the coffee mug she'd made in Art class before excusing herself to dry-heave guilt into the upstairs sink.

But even as more replaced it, the burden didn't feel as heavy as it should.

*

The new year. A clock had just struck midnight.

Daniel Hebert slept in gray linen, and his daughter lay beside him in verdant green. She was awake, waiting for her conscience to stop her.

It did not intercede when she turned to spoon his back, nor when she pulled the covers down for easier access, nor even when she cupped the protuberance at his groin.

She shouldn't do this.

_But she'd already proven she could._

Pushing through wisps of revulsion, Taylor guided her fingers along her partner's sleeping form. Glacially, they snaked under the waistband of his boxers, gripped, and after several long moments, began to move purposefully.

_Forgive me, father – for I will sin..._

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is 'Erotic Tragedy' a thing? That's what I was aiming for, I guess.


End file.
